


A kiss with a fist is better than none

by BarricadeKitten (Dominatrix)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Also a bit of swearing, Biting, Blow Jobs, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, Hopeless smut, M/M, Porn, Rough Sex, Scratching, Smut, porn with a tiny bit of plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-14 21:10:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2203236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dominatrix/pseuds/BarricadeKitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is not sure if he wants this, the sharp edge in his back, two hands sliding across his chest as if they were searching, and Grantaire all too close, too warm.<br/>But then Grantaire buries his hands in his hair and pulls, and Enjolras stops asking questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A kiss with a fist

**Author's Note:**

> How did that happen? I have no idea.  
> This will be a multi-chapter story revolving around the...singular relationship Enjolras and Grantaier have.  
> (I might add a bit of plot and angst. You know me. I live for some proper Angst.)  
> Kudos to Florence and the Machine for providing the amazing song "Kiss with a fist" which gave me the idea in the first place.  
> Love, Liz x

The first time they crash into each other Enjolras punches Grantaire's face so hard he makes his lip split and his jaw crunch.

It is dark in the backroom of the Musain, where their words are tinged with revolution and hope, or in Grantaire's case alcohol and scathing cynicism. The others have left them behind when it became clear that their fight would last for quite some time; no one could tear them apart, neither with sweet nor rough words.

Grantaire stares at their leader, a hand cupping his jaw in pain and disbelief, disbelief that Enjolras really lost his temper this time. He has a hot temper anyway, but he always chooses speech, endless tirades and monologues.

 _He will make a brilliant lawyer one day_ , Grantaire always thinks when he hears his golden Apollo talk, _providing that he won't get himself killed first_. Some might feel devitalised with how cruel and unjust the state works, but not Enjolras; it only makes him fight harder.

Today is the first time Grantaire has ever seen him physically hurt someone, though. And God, that punch was _good_.

He tastes the blood in his mouth, the coppery scent filling his nostrils, and something in his brain just clicks.

Enjolras raises his hands in defense, an almost apologetic expression on his face bathed in gold. “God, R, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have, I was just...”

Grantaire groans. “Shut your mouth, Enjolras.”

The blond man doesn't have time for a startled noise, too soon he finds himself pressed between a wall and... _Grantaire_. Now he can taste the blood in his own mouth while Grantaire kisses him roughly, like he's planning to leave an impression.

Enjolras is not sure if he wants this, the sharp edge in his back, two hands sliding across his chest, searching for something to hold on to, or maybe to categorise all the planes and curves of Enjolras' body, and Grantaire all too close, too warm. And a part of him can't help but think that this is _wrong_ ; two men surely aren't supposed to be together like this. Enjolras can't deny that men have always been more successful in catching his eye than even the prettiest woman have. Still, there is doubt, and maybe this is why his blood feels so rushed, why there is such a thrill to kissing the other man?

Grantaire buries his hands in his hair and _pulls_ , and Enjolras stops asking questions, stops thinking altogether.

He ends up being bent over the table, receiving the fastest and most brutal hand job in the history of mankind, while Grantaire grinds against his back, one hand still fisted in his golden curls to hold him down.

It is only a matter of minutes until both men can barely stand on their own two feet. Grantaire's hand is trapped between the wood and Enjolras, which makes moving harder, but he doesn't have the strength to keep the taller man upright.

He will find a few splinters of wood on the back of his right hand when he gets home, and savour the sweet sting of every single one when he pulls them out. When he tugs sharply at Enjolras's hair to relieve some of the pressure on his hand, he watches the taller man's back arch in a delicious bow. Little droplets of sweat are forming on the nape of his neck before they lose themselves under his shirt, out of Grantaire's sight.

This is the moment where he swears to himself that he is going to take Enjolras to bed one day, should he ever get the opportunity, and honour every glorious, golden centimeter of him. He has always asked himself how he looked underneath his clothes, the curiosity of man, but now it is a sweetly aching need to feel his skin, to taste it.

Enjolras is reduced to a moaning creature by now, barely able to form coherent words, let alone a full sentence. Grantaire can hear how his breath gets faster and faster, his moans louder and more frequent, and still he keeps up the harsh pace because damn he is close himself. The friction is not ideal, but pleasant, and even through two pairs of trousers he can feel Enjolras's heat, and that in itself would be enough to make Grantaire come in a split second.

A last pull at the blond curls does the trick, and Enjolras collapses on the table with a long sigh that sounds suspiciously like Grantaire's name. Grantaire himself follows only two thrusts after, and couldn't care less that his trousers will be more than uncomfortable on the way home.

There is still a hint of copper and salt on Grantaire's lips when he spins Enjolras around as if he was only a rag doll, gives him one last bruising kiss and winks at him before he leaves.

The shame when Enjolras cleans his come off the table with his handkerchief burns hot, but _God_ he feels glorious.


	2. Bite me

Three weeks later Grantaire finds himself with a few bruised ribs after a drunken night with his friends. Two days ago he was convinced he could stand up and walk over to Éponine, who was merely twenty feet away, lounging in a flimsy armchair, shooting dark looks over to Marius and his sweetheart Cosette. Well, it turned out that Grantaire couldn't, and on his way down he landed on the corner of one of the tables. His friends cheered when Grantaire struggled to stand up and bowed dramatically, throwing kisses into the howling audience.

When he woke up the next morning and found his left side black and blue, he couldn't remember what had happened at first. It had taken a few of his more sober friends – which meant Enjolras and Marius – to clear everything up.

This night seems like a very dangerous start of a repetition. Most of them are beyond drunkenness, merely lounging on pillows and blankets on the floor so they can't fall from their chairs. A wise thought.

Grantaire doesn't know how it has happened, but somehow Enjolras is sitting next to him. His cheeks are flushed because he has had a glass too much, or maybe five, and he sits close. And leans in even closer. Grantaire feels his presence, his warmth, and the more foolish parts of him want to ravish him right here, in front of his friends. He takes another gulp from his bottle; the wine is luke-warm, but it soothes his dry mouth and throat, at least for a second. At least until Enjolras speaks up.

“Does it still hurt?” he asks the artist lowly, as if not to attract attention from the others. He could have screamed and they probably wouldn't have noticed. Or cared.

“What?... _Ah_.” Seeing Grantaire's puzzled expression, Enjolras puts a surprisingly gentle hand on his ribcage and presses down just a tiny bit. It's still hard enough to make Grantaire moan, his head lolling back against Enjolras's shoulder. When he blinks and re-focuses, he almost shies away from the hungry expression in Enjolras's eyes.

“Oh, the things I want to do to you” he mumbles, drawing one hand up Grantaire's thigh, until he has cupped him through his trousers.

“Are you insane, Enjolras? You can't be serious.”

His alcohol-infused brain realises his bad choice of words just as Enjolras starts to move his hand away. Grantaire stops him short, putting his own hand on his, and just that tiny bit of friction is enough for his cock to awaken and stir into semi-hardness.

“That's not what I meant. Just...Let's get out of here.”

“We can't go together.” Enjolras's status of comparably light drunkenness is of advantage because he, in contrast to R, is still able to think straight for the most part.

“I'll go first. Meet me on the street in five minutes.” He gives Enjolras's hand (and through that, his cock) a last squeeze, feels a pang of regret when he has to brush Enjolras off, and struggles to stand up and get out, taking care to not step on any of their friends on his way out.

He has barely taken four intakes of breath to sober himself a bit when he hears Enjolras tumbling down the stairs, as if he would take two steps with each pace.

“You have a weird perception of time, my friend” he growls and can't help but smile when he notices how dark Enjolras's eyes are when they approach each other. He might be drunk beyond compare, but there are some essential things he will always remember. And riling up Enjolras is such an essential thing to Grantaire.

Sucking Enjolras off in a dark corner, though, has not occupied a large part of his mind until now. Now that he is on his knees though, and swallows him down almost to the root, he wonders how he ever managed to think about something else.

The weight of Enjolras on his tongue, the feeling of his cock on Grantaire's tongue...It is almost too perfect to be real. Grantaire savours the occasional drops of pre-ejaculate as if they were nectar; he has bedded enough men to not wrinkle his nose at the taste.

He feels Enjolras's nails digging into his scalp and his shoulders painfully, almost hard enough to draw blood, but God help him if he is going to stop. Once in a while, Enjolras gives a tug of Grantaire's hair unexpectedly, prompting a sharp intake of breath which makes his ribs ache. He repays Enjolras in scraping his teeth over his cock. Not too gently.

“Oh fuck, Grantaire” Enjolras curses and nearly manages to break his own skull when he slams his head back against the wall and lets out an obscene moan.

Grantaire only hums a response, and it doesn't sound friendly, especially combined with the heated gaze he shoots him from down low.


	3. You say the sweetest things

Grantaire knees are starting to hurt, the fabric of his trousers is soggy with moisture he would like to not think about, and his jaw is aching. He gives a few hard sucks that are almost too hard to please, but Enjolras is too far gone to notice. It seems as if he likes a bit of roughness, too; their history, though brief, points into that direction.

Grantaire barely manages to let Enjolras' cock fall from his mouth before he comes, covering his hands and shirt. When he stands, he wipes his hands on Enjolras's shirt, holding his gaze through narrowed blue eyes with an amused expression in his own green ones.

“For a man who's still waiting to come you are brave" Enjolras all but growls. Grantaire smiles lazily, the alcohol clouding his mind in a very pleasant way. “Have your way with me, Enjolras. Just do something.”

Enjolras is not one to be asked twice. To Grantaire's disappointment, he doesn't drop to his knees, but he forgets about that a few seconds later when Enjolras has him firmly in hand, stroking his cock feverishly, squeezing his behind with the other hand to make him move closer. It's good, it's really good, but not as good as winding Enjolras up.

“Is this all you can do? God, you are a disgrace.” His words are humorous, but still scathing, and he knows there is nothing so easily hurt as Enjolras's pride.

“Oh, Grantaire, you say the sweetest things” he replies through gritted teeth.

A moment later Grantaire almost regrets having opened his mouth. Enjolras spins him around so he is pressed against the wall and claims his mouth with a rough kiss. He only realises Enjolras has bitten him when he tastes blood, and Enjolras has the nerves to smirk before moving down to his collarbone, sucking on the skin that is stretched over the bone. He will have a prominent, red mark there, just enough to the side to be covered by his shirt.

The other marks Enjolras leaves will not be hidden so easily. He licks and bites his way up Grantaire's neck, still rubbing his cock with a warm, unsteady hand, and without a clear rhythm. Grantaire makes another promise to himself: To teach Enjolras how to give a proper handjob. No wonder he is always so tense and stressed when he does not even know how to please himself.

When Enjolras shoves him against the wall and his hand pushes directly at his bruised left side, all air is drawn from Grantaire's lungs and he nearly keels over in pain.

“God, Enjolras, that hurt!”

Enjolras straightens up again, and Grantaire notices the feral glimmer in his eyes.

“I know” he groans and captures Grantaire's mouth again.

The heat built up in him slowly, but suddenly he is so close he has to rip his mouth from Enjolras's and bury his head at his shoulder. The only thing that prevents him from screaming out Enjolras's name as he comes is the fact that he bites his shoulder instead, leaving an obscene-looking bite mark.

When he can see a bit clearer again, he puts his hands on Enjolras's chest and uses him to push himself into a completely straight position. Well, drunk straight.

“That” he breathes heavily, “was terrible. Worst handjob ever.”

Enjolras looks as if he might tear him to pieces and feed him to the stray dogs. Alcohol is good for him, Grantaire decides. It's fun when he is drunk.

“Fuck you” he hisses, but the hint of a wicked and dark grin is starting to curl at the edges of his raw-kissed mouth.

Grantaire smiles; Enjolras curses so rarely. He steps close again, running a fingertip over the middle of his shirt, up to his neck.

He puts a hand around his throat playfully, only squeezing for a short moment, and it's more the promise in his eyes than the actual lack of air which makes Enjolras's breath hitch.

“Not if I let you fuck me first, gorgeous.”


End file.
